of average height. Most of his life had been spent in the navy, and he still looked as if being in command of men at sea would suit his nature better, facing the elements rather than the deviousness of politics and public opinion.
“Yes sir?” Pitt enquired.
Cornwallis seemed deeply unhappy, as if he had spent time searching for words for what he had to say but he had not yet found them.
“Is it a new case?” Pitt asked.
“Yes… and no.” Cornwallis gazed at him steadily. “Pitt, I hate this! I fought against it all morning, and I lost. No battle has ever sat worse with me. If I knew of anything else to do I would do it.” He shook his head very slightly. “But I believe that if I pursue it any more I may only make it worse.”
Pitt was confused, and Cornwallis’s obvious distress touched him with a chill of apprehension.
“Is it a case? Who’s involved?”
“In the East End,” Cornwallis replied. “And I have no idea who’s involved. Half of the anarchists in London, for all I know.”
Pitt took a deep breath, steadying himself. Like all other police officers, and much of the general public, Pitt was aware of the anarchist activities in much of Europe, including the violent explosion at a restaurant in Paris and several explosions in London and various other European capitals. The French authorities had circulated a dossier containing pictures of five hundred wanted anarchists. Several were awaiting trial.
“Who’s dead?” he asked. “Why are we called in? The East End is not our patch.”
“No one is dead,” Cornwallis replied. “It’s a Special Branch matter.”
“The Irish?” Pitt was startled. Like everyone else, he was perfectly aware of the Irish troubles, of the Fenians, of the history of myth and violence, tragedy and strife which had bedeviled Ireland over the last three hundred years. And he knew what unrest there was in parts of London, for which a special section of police had been set apart so that they might concentrate on dealing with the threat of bombings, assassination or even minor insurrection. It had originally been known as the Special Irish Branch.
“Not Irish in particular,” Cornwallis corrected. “General political troubles; they just prefer not to be called political. The public wouldn’t accept it.”
“Why us?” Pitt asked. “I don’t understand.”
“You’d better sit down.” Cornwallis waved at the chair opposite his desk, and Pitt obeyed.
“It’s not us,” Cornwallis said honestly. “It’s you.” He did not look away as he spoke but met Pitt’s eyes unflinchingly. “You are relieved of command of Bow Street and seconded to Special Branch, from today.”
Pitt was stunned. It was impossible. How could he be removed from Bow Street? He had done nothing even incompetent, far less wrong! He wanted to protest, but no words seemed adequate.
Cornwallis’s mouth was stretched into a thin line, as if he felt some physical pain gnawing at him. “The command comes from the top,” he said very quietly. “Far above me. I questioned it, then I fought it, but it is beyond my power to reverse. The men concerned all know each other. I am an outsider. I’m not one of them.” He searched Pitt’s eyes, trying to judge how much of his meaning Pitt had understood.
“Not one of them…” Pitt echoed. Old memories came flooding like a tide of darkness. He had seen the subtlest of corruption in the past, men who had secret loyalties which superseded every other honor or pledge, who would cover each other’s crimes, who offered preference to their own and excluded all others. It was known as the Inner Circle. Its long tentacles had gripped him before, but he had thought little of it for a couple of years. Now Cornwallis was telling him that this was the enemy.
Perhaps he should not have been surprised. He had dealt them some hard blows in the past. They must have been biding their time to retaliate, and his testimony in court had given them the perfect opportunity.
“Friends of Adinett?” he said aloud.
Cornwallis nodded fractionally. “I have no way of knowing, but I would lay any odds you like on it.” He too avoided mentioning the name, but neither of them doubted the meaning. Cornwallis drew in his breath. “You are to report to Mr. Victor Narraway, at the address I shall give you. He is the commander of Special Branch in the East End, and he will tell you your exact duties.” He stopped abruptly.
Was he going to say that Narraway too was a member of the Inner Circle? If he were then Pitt was more profoundly alone than he had imagined.
“I wish I could tell you more about Narraway,” Cornwallis said miserably. “But the whole of Special Branch is something of a closed book to the rest of us.” Dislike puckered his face. He may have been obliged to accept that a clandestine force was necessary, but it offended his nature, as it did those of most Englishmen.
“I thought the Fenian trouble had died down,” Pitt said candidly. “What could I do in Spitalfields that their own men couldn’t do better?”
Cornwallis leaned forward over his desk. “Pitt, it has nothing to do with the Fenians, or the anarchists, and Spitalfields is immaterial.” His voice was low and urgent. “They want you out of Bow Street. They are determined to break you, if they can. This is at least another job, for which you will be paid. Money will be deposited for your wife to withdraw. And if you are careful, and clever, they may be unable to find you, and believe me, that would be very desirable for some time to come. I… I wish it were not so.”
Pitt intended to stand up, but found his legs weak. He started to ask how long he was to be banished to chasing shadows in the East End, robbed of dignity, of command, of the whole way of life he was used to… and had earned! He was not sure if he could bear the answer. Then, looking at Cornwallis’s face, he realized the man had no answer to give.
“I have to live… in the East End?” he asked. He heard his own voice, dry and a little cracked, as if he had not spoken for days. He realized it was the sound of shock. He had heard the same tone in others when he had had to tell them unbearable news.
He shook himself. This was not unbearable. No one he loved was injured or dead. He had lost his home for himself, but it was there for Charlotte, and Daniel and Jemima. Only he would be missing.
But it was so unjust! He had done nothing wrong, nothing even mistaken. Adinett was guilty. Pitt had presented the evidence to a jury fairly, and they had weighed it and delivered a verdict.
Why had John Adinett killed Fetters? Even Juster had been unable to think of any reason. In everyone’s belief they had been the best of friends, two men who not only shared a passion for travel and for objects treasured for their links with history and legend, but also shared many ideals and dreams for changing the future. They wanted a gentler, more tolerant society which offered a chance of improvement to all.
Juster had wondered if the motive could concern money or a woman. Both had been investigated, and no suggestion could be found of either’s being the case. No one knew of even the slightest difference between the two men until that day. No raised voices had been heard. When the butler had brought the port half an hour earlier, the two men had seemed the best of friends.
But Pitt was certain he was not mistaken in the facts.
“Pitt…” Cornwallis was still leaning across the desk, staring at him, his eyes earnest.
Pitt refocused his attention. “Yes?”
“I’ll do all I can.” Cornwallis seemed embarrassed, as if he knew that was not enough. “Just… just wait it out. Be careful. And… and for God’s sake, trust no one.” His hands clenched on the polished oak surface. “I wish to God I had the power to do something. But I don’t even know who I’m fighting…”
Pitt rose to his feet. “There’s nothing to do,” he said flatly. “Where do I find this Victor Narraway?”
Cornwallis handed him a slip of paper with an address written on it- 14 Lake Street, Mile End, New Town. It was on the edge of the Spitalfields area. “But go home first, collect what clothes you’ll need, and personal things. Be careful what you tell Charlotte… Don’t…” He stopped, changing his mind about what he meant to say. “There are anarchists,” he said instead. “Real ones, with dynamite.”
“Maybe they’re planning something here.”
“I suppose that’s possible. After Bloody Sunday in Trafalgar Square, not much would surprise me. Although that was four years ago.”
Pitt walked to the door. “I know you did what you could.” It was difficult to speak. “The Inner Circle is a secret disease. I knew that… I’d just forgotten.” And without waiting for Cornwallis to answer, he went out and down the stairs, oblivious of the men he passed, not even hearing those who spoke to him.
